


Feasting With Mine Enemy

by sneetchstar



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, First Time, One Shot, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 13:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11186100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: A little wedding night AU in which our Rosaline and Benvolio are not as unwilling as they would have thought...





	Feasting With Mine Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> Because I immediately became Rosvolio trash.

The wedding ceremony passed in a blur. Capulet and Montague, standing face to face, each the chosen champions of their respective households. But instead of engaging a battle to the death, their task is much more daunting.

Marriage.

Some might say that a battle to the death would be simpler. Not as painful or bloody. Certainly shorter.

Those same people are probably in unhappy marriages.

If someone were to ask Rosaline, even days later, to recount the details of her wedding, she would be able to do little more than provide generalities.

If someone were to ask Benvolio, they would be met with a blank stare.

However, they will remember the kiss. They will remember it as being dry, tremendously chaste, and very quick. Like kissing a great aunt you rarely see and don’t especially like.

Recent unrest in Verona forced them to forego the customary great feast and celebration in favor of a small, quiet dinner, attended only by family and the prince and princess (with the prince poorly trying to disguise his unhappiness the entire time).

The best thing that could be said about the dinner was that both Lords Montague and Capulet behaved themselves. And the food was good, but neither will remember that, either.

Once they were finally able to retire, after an awkwardly quiet walk to their small villa originally belonging to neither family, the reluctant newlyweds find themselves truly alone together for the first time ever.

No uncles, no chaperones, not even a servant or maid hovering in the background.

Rosaline is tired and wants nothing more than to collapse into a bed – any bed – and sleep until she can convince herself that this is all some sort of bizarre dream.

Yet she knows what is expected of her this night. She knows and is quite surprised to discover that she is not completely horrified by the thought of it.

She looks at Benvolio, her husband – her _husband_ – and opens her mouth to say something. Finding no words, she closes it again, and turns to head to their bedroom.

He follows without a word, watching the gentle sway of her hips, slightly obscured by her gown but still tantalizing, noting her slender neck and how her dark skin somehow glows in the candlelight. He finds himself wondering what it feels like. What it _tastes_ like.

He shakes his head to clear it as he enters the bedroom.

Rosaline finds herself moving rather stiffly, like she’s not sure how to behave, and lands at her vanity, where she sits and begins taking her hair down.

Benvolio watches for a second, fascinated by how her curls fall down around her shoulders, dark and shining and springy. His thumb unconsciously rubs over his fingertips, trying to imagine what her hair might feel like.

When she catches him watching her, he reaches over and grabs a pillow from the bed. Then he puts it back, figuring that there are pillows on the beds in one of the two guest rooms in the villa.

He softly clears his throat. “I will bid you good night… Wife,” he says, then turns and heads towards the door.

“Where are you going?” The question pops out before she can stop it, her hands hovering in midair near her head, a hairpin clutched in one.

He stops. “I may be a libertine, but I am no cad,” he says. “I will not bed a woman who is unwilling.”

“Oh,” she dumbly answers. “But… we should at least give the impression that… I mean… the… the bed is large enough…” Her voice trails off and she turns away, gathering her now-loose hair so that she can braid it for sleeping, thankful that he cannot see the flush she feels rising in her cheeks. When he says nothing, she quietly says, “I am sorry you find me so unappealing that you—”

“What makes you think I find you unappealing?” he asks, his voice almost as soft. She can hear him walking closer, but is frozen in her seat. “Have I ever said as much?”

She quickly secures the end of her braid and says, “You called me a harpy.” She suddenly finds her courage and stands, facing him, a challenge in her eyes.

“That was in reference to that sharp tongue you use to cut me to the quick at every opportunity,” he counters, stepping closer still. He lifts a single finger and traces her jaw with it before it comes to rest under her chin, and is surprised when she allows it. “But I do have eyes, Capulet, and they clearly see that you are quite beautiful.”

She stares in shock, her large brown eyes wide. Then she blinks, and he lets his hand drop.

“So you care nothing for a woman’s personality? All you require is a pretty face to take a woman to your bed?” she asks, her tone sharp and accusatory.

He looks at the ceiling and heaves an exasperated sigh of a laugh. “I—”

“Do you truly think so little of me? So little of yourself?”

“Capulet—”

“But I suppose with enough coin you can buy—”

“Rosaline!”

His rare use of her first name steals any further words from her lips.

Benvolio looks at the ceiling again, and Rosaline follows suit, wondering what is so interesting up there. “I… I don’t _dis_ like you, all right?” he eventually admits, then looks down at his feet. “When I called you a harpy… it was unfair of me. I barely knew you then. I should not have been so quick to pass judgment, especially—” He suddenly breaks off, as if he was afraid of saying too much.

“Especially…?” she softly prompts.

“Especially because you are far less deserving of reproach than I,” he admits, finally looking at her.

Her expression softens as she looks at him. “As much as it pains me to say this, I don’t dislike you, either,” she admits. During the short time between the Prince’s decree that they marry and the actual wedding, the two unwilling parties somehow formed an awkward alliance. It formed out of necessity, for no one else could truly understand how they were feeling, but as time went on, transformed into a hesitant sort of almost-friendship.

The fact that it was slowly turning into more than that seemed to have passed both of them by until this very moment.

His face takes a small but interesting journey from stunned to confused and makes a brief final stop at hopeful before asking, “Truly?”

“Much like you, I was passing judgment before I had all the information,” she says. “Condemning you for little more than your name.” She shakes her head. “It’s… it’s nothing but foolishness. This feud between our houses.”

He pauses, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Do you even know what it is about?” he asks.

She looks him in the eye and answers, “I have no idea.”

Surprisingly, he laughs. Even more surprisingly, she joins in.

Then she gasps when he kisses her.

It is only a brief kiss, but when he steps back he braces himself for the inevitable slap.

She raises her hand, but merely touches her fingertips to her lips. “Why did you do that?” It isn’t the first kiss they’ve shared, but it is the first they’ve _voluntarily_ shared.

“I don’t know,” he answers. “But you’re even more beautiful when you laugh. I don’t think I’ve seen you… happy. Ever.”

“Well, I haven’t had much call to be,” she says. “Nor have you,” she adds, realizing he was likely just as close to Romeo as she was to Juliet.

“I am sorry about your cousin,” he says, as though he heard her thoughts.

“And I am sorry about yours,” she replies.

“We are neither of us to blame for their fates,” he adds, and she nods her agreement.

They stand facing each other, and that awkward feeling creeps over them again.

“So…” Benvolio starts, trying to address the as-yet-unresolved elephant in the room.

Rosaline cannot seem to find the words she needs. Rather, she knows what words she needs, but she cannot bring herself to say them.

So she leans forward and kisses him, her hands cupping his cheeks.

“Capulet…” he lightly gasps, pulling away for a moment, looking for confirmation of what he suspects may be happening.

“Oh,” she responds, wilting. “Forgive me. I did not realize it is _you_ who is unwilling.” Humiliated, she tries to flee, but he catches her before she can get away, and she finds herself roughly pressed to his chest.

“I am _not_ unwilling,” he rumbles, then covers her lips with his, coaxing them open for him this time.

“Neither am I,” she breathily admits a moment later, leaning back just enough to finally confess the words that have been stuck in her throat. Then she dives back in, one hand straying up into his hair.

They break away again and he gasps, “You’re not?” His eyes search her face, looking for any sign that she might be jesting, or worse, just wanting to get it over with.

Rosaline shakes her head no, too shy and inexperienced yet to be able to put words to the sensations she is feeling. All she knows is his kisses make her feel giddy and warm. Unbidden, memories of Escalus and his kisses float into her consciousness, and she realizes that while the feelings Benvolio’s kisses raise in her are _similar_ , they are still different.

Better?

She isn’t certain yet, so she lifts her lips to his again.

“I thought… when did… but…” Benvolio tries to speak between kisses. He knows she has softened towards him, but he finds himself wanting to know exactly when the fiery hatred she seemed to feel for him faded into something resembling affection, but she doesn’t seem inclined to talk. He gives in, kissing her more ardently, allowing his hands to rove a bit more.

Without warning, he pulls away, then bends down and scoops her into his arms.

She yelps, then asks, “What are you doing?” He’s slender and only a couple of inches taller than she, so she is a little surprised to find herself being lifted with such ease.

“Carrying you to bed,” he answers. “I did not carry you over the threshold since you marched through the doors before I could get a chance, so I am correcting that now.”

“You – oh! – wanted to do that?” she asks, landing on the bed, which has already been conveniently turned down.

He looks down at her, dark against the white sheets, looking rather tantalizing on the bed. Their bed. “I don’t know if ‘wanted to’ is exactly the correct term, but I would have.”

“How very romantic of you,” she dryly replies, and he barks a laugh in response.

He sinks down onto the bed. “I must confess romance is not something at which I have had a great deal of practice,” he says, then lifts her hand and kisses it.

“Do tell,” she remarks, twitching the smile from her lips.

He turns her hand and kisses the inside of her wrist. “I _will_ tell you that my days of whoring and drinking are over. I am a man of honor and I _will_ be true to you, Capulet,” he says. There was a time he would have been worried about _her_ being true to _him_ , but he is observant enough to have seen that whatever there was between his new wife and the prince is now gone. At least on her part.

“I appreciate your consideration. Thank you,” she replies, not realizing she needed to hear him say those words until she heard them. She may not have entered this marriage willingly, but he is _her_ husband and she knows she would not like it one bit if he continued carousing now that they are wed.

“So polite,” he goads, bending to pull his boots off. “Are you always this rigid?”

She sits up and glares at him, ready to launch into a diatribe about how he knows very little about her life with her aunt and uncle, how Lady Capulet berates her every chance she gets, so she has conditioned herself to be as perfect and polite as possible, always toeing the line. Then she sees the way he is looking at her, half wary, half wanting, and her ire deflates. She simply says, “I have had need to be.”

To Rosaline’s surprise, Benvolio leans over and kisses her with surprising tenderness. “I understand,” he whispers against her lips before kissing her again, this time more fervently, gently pressing her back until she is lying down again.

He slowly creeps closer, his lips never leaving hers, until he is looming over her. She doesn’t even realize how he is surrounding her until she feels his knee nudge its way between her legs.

Her hands slide up around his shoulders and he opens his eyes in surprise. He knows she is innocent, so he was not expecting her to be very responsive. But she seems to be growing bolder as she relaxes, and he finds he likes it very much.

His lips leave hers and she makes a noise of disappointment until she feels them begin to trail kisses down her neck. She leans her head back to give him more access, sighing in pleasure. She absently notes that his beard isn’t scratchy like she thought it would be. It tickles a little, but in a good way.

He skims his lips lower, teasing the exposed tops of her breasts, until he can take it no more. He suddenly rolls away from her, leaving her momentarily stunned. She watches, unable to look away, as he quickly divests himself of his clothing, carelessly tossing his garments hither and yon, until he is as bare as the day he was born.

Rosaline stares and Benvolio lets her, not knowing what kind of education his bride has gotten in this area. He only remembers her once expressing a desire to join a convent. He rejoins her on the bed, lifts his hand to her face, and kisses her.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, nuzzling her nose with his.

She gives him a puzzled look for a second, then realizes why he is asking her to turn around. She sits up and presents a row of laces to him.

He makes quick work of them, pushing her dress from her shoulders and immediately leaning forward to kiss whatever new skin he can reach.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispers, and when she stiffens, he realizes he’s said the wrong thing.

Or perhaps he hasn’t.

She stands and lets her dress drop, followed by her thin chemise, and regards him with her fiery, proud eyes, aiming to prove to him how afraid she _isn’t_. Still, her heart is pounding and her breathing is heavy and fast.

The heaving of her chest is almost his undoing, and he reaches out for her hand, tugging her back to the bed.

“You are beautiful,” he says, looming over her once more. He returns his lips to hers, and when she is sufficiently distracted, his hand goes wandering.

When it brushes over her breast, she whimpers into his mouth. When he caresses it in earnest, letting her know his actions are intentional, she moans and arches her back, pressing it more firmly into his hand.

He leaves her lips and heads for her breasts, where he closes his lips over a taut, dark nipple.

“Oh…” she gasps, writhing a little beneath him. Her hand finds its way back into his hair, her short nails scratching his scalp.

He kisses a path to her other breast, briefly lifting his head to appreciate the view. They are on the small side of medium, but full, firm, and nicely shaped, with dark nipples standing out, simply asking for his kisses. Ever the gentleman, he drops his head to oblige their unspoken request.

Rosaline sighs, and Benvolio feels her hips moving beneath him. Figuring she is sufficiently distracted, his hand moves lower. She stiffens for only a fraction of a second when his hand caresses her thigh, sliding inward over her incredibly soft skin.

“Open your legs for me,” he murmurs, and very nearly jumps in alarm when she complies with neither argument nor complaint.

Moving slowly, making his intent obvious, he moves his hand upwards until he can feel the heat of her. When he gently slides an exploratory finger, he groans at how wet she already is. For him.

“Rosaline,” he says in a low, husky growl laced with pleased surprise. His lips have returned to her neck and his fingers move until they find the spot he knows will bring her the most pleasure.

“Ah!” she gasps, clutching his shoulders as her hips move of their own accord, seeming to instinctively know what to do, how to chase these new sensations he is bringing her.

He revels in how responsive she is, pleased to discover she is as passionate in their marriage bed as she is when she is arguing with him.

“Oh…” she moans, her hands beginning to blindly grope, looking for something to anchor herself.

He slides a single finger inside her, and she moans again. He adds a second and she arches against him.

“You can touch me if you like,” he offers, gently nipping the edge of her ear. In truth, he is dying for her to touch him but is a little worried that if she does he will explode and this will be over before it has truly begun. His cock is aching, nearly painful in its need for release.

“What?” she asks, confused for a moment; then, “Oh.”

For a moment, he thinks she isn’t going to. Then, of course, his bold wife rises to the challenge, her hand sliding down his chest and over his stomach before finding his length. She gently runs her fingers over the shaft, learning the feel of it, then wraps her fingers around it.

“Oh,” he grunts, his own fingers stilling for a second as his entire body is rendered weak from her touch. She slides her hand, and he nearly loses his mind.

“Am I doing it right?” she asks, her voice soft and breathy.

“Yes,” he answers, kissing her. “Yes,” he repeats. He regroups and resumes attending her needs, finding he wants to make sure she gets her pleasure before he has to cause her pain. “Oh, you’re too good at it…” he chokes out.

“Oh!” she exclaims, understanding, and removes her hand from his cock and sliding it around to first caress, then grasp his rear, surprising him yet again.

He grunts again, then plunges his two fingers in deep while circling her clit with his thumb. She begins trembling and gasping, her fingers digging into his backside and shoulder, and moments later she cries out, her hips bucking and her thighs automatically slamming closed. “Ah! Ben…”

His half-formed name sighed from her lips is the sweetest sound he has ever heard, and all he can do is kiss her until she relaxes again. When she does, he extracts his hand and moves, settling between her thighs.

“I am sorry for any pain this may cause,” he apologizes.

She opens her eyes and can see that his apology is sincere, and it touches her heart. She simply nods.

Benvolio reaches down, positioning himself at Rosaline’s entrance. Then he kisses her just before he thrusts forward, tearing her maidenhead and making her his.

She sharply inhales with a squeak, obviously endeavoring to be brave, her whole body tensing up.

He waits, not moving. “Relax,” he whispers. “It will help if you relax.”

She exhales, her large, dark-brown eyes looking at him with such trust that his heart aches. Her lower lip is still trapped between her teeth, so he rests his weight on one arm and reaches up with the other, gently freeing her lip with his thumb. “I’m going to move now,” he says, still stroking her lower lip.

His voice is strained, and she realizes he is likely suffering in his attempts to be gallant. “All right,” she says.

“Bend your knees,” he suggests, and she does, planting her feet beside his thighs. “That’s good,” he murmurs, pulling back and then moving forward again, watching her. She doesn’t cry out in pain or tense up on him, so he does it again. And again, and again, until he starts a rhythm.

After a short time, she sighs, her eyes closing, and he realizes her hips are moving in concert with his thrusts.

She hums, and his head drops, hanging between his shoulders as he hovers over her, his pace picking up again.

A moment later, he drives in deep and stills, burying his face in her neck with a growl as he surges forth into her.

Spent, he sags over her, carefully collapsing onto her. A smile tugs at his lips when her hand comes up and strokes his hair. He turns his face and kisses her neck, then gently extracts himself from her before rolling to the side.

They lie side by side for a short time, each lost in their own thoughts.

Rosaline’s main thought consists of two words: Escalus who?

“That wasn’t as unpleasant as I had been led to believe,” she says, staring at the ceiling.

Benvolio lifts his head and looks at her. “I suppose ‘not unpleasant’ is about the best a maiden can hope f—” His words die on his lips when he realizes she was teasing him. “Capulet…”

She presses her lips together in a fairly unsuccessful attempt to stop her laughter. “I cannot have my husband developing an overly-inflated ego, now, can I?” she asks, finally allowing a smile. “Well, more inflated than it already is, in your case.”

All he can do is laugh with her. Then, throwing caution to the wind, he lifts his arm and encourages her to cuddle against his side before he pulls the blankets up over them.

She sighs on his shoulder, obviously exhausted.

Still, Benvolio cannot allow himself to slumber with one matter left unattended. “I am sorry I called you a harpy,” he apologizes.

Rosaline bites her lower lip and says, “Thank you. But I likely deserved it.”

“No, you didn’t. Well…” he pauses, possibly reconsidering, then decides, “No. Truth is, I’ve come to enjoy your sharp wit, even when your barbs are aimed at me.”

She presses her lips together, trying not to laugh. “You are a rather worthy opponent,” she says.

He snorts. “Thank you for saying ‘opponent’ instead of ‘target’,” he replies, then kisses her forehead. “Sleep, Wife. You are tired.”

She closes her eyes with a sigh. “And you?”

“I am also tired,” he answers, reaching over to pinch out the last remaining candle.

As they drift to sleep, they do not realize they are both thinking the same thing: Perhaps my enemy is not my enemy. Perhaps this person beside me has already found my heart and will treat it with care.

Perhaps this marriage will work.


End file.
